


Well Pleased With Our Damnation

by aldiara



Category: Harlots (TV)
Genre: Bring Back The Porn Challenge, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, F/F, Female Friendship, Friendship/Love, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 17:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: There were rules to the game, and Charlotte had been well versed in them since childhood. But Isabella made it hard to stick to them.





	Well Pleased With Our Damnation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alshaworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alshaworld/gifts).



> Missing scene, post S02E06. Enormous thanks to my lovely beta Alsha! <333

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 _“No one has ever touched me since. No one ever will.”_  
  
There were rules to the game, and Charlotte had been well versed in them since childhood. But Isabella made it hard to stick to them.

“’Tis alright to care, my love. Sometimes you will. Sometimes you’ll find yourself unable not to. That’s fine.” Her mother had leaned close, cupping Charlotte’s cheek, smiling. It had been a complex smile, a smile with layers it took Charlotte years to puzzle out. Back then, she’d still thought her mother’s love a simple, immutable thing.

“Care as much as you need to, sweetling. With some culls it’ll be a boon to you, and no one wants a girl that’s a dead shell. It’s a fine thing to understand them. Just” – and here Margaret Wells’s smile had dropped, a fond thing twisted just like that into something sad – “don’t ever forget they’re paying you. To care, or to pretend you do; it’s all the same to them. Make sure you keep track of the difference, or you’ll be lost.”

 

It was impossible not to care, with Isabella. There was a loneliness crying out from the heart of her, and Charlotte wasn’t cold enough, or dulled enough, not to respond to it.

 _“Why should you forever be alone? Let me break his spell.”_  
  
When she leaned forward on the divan to touch her lips to Isabella’s, it wasn’t the trade’s cunning that drove her, or even her own furious, inconveniently impetuous heart. It was an understanding, deeper than her mother would have condoned, of loneliness; an instinctive response to that reckless rise that flared and defied convention. 

She felt the other woman’s breath draw against her, in automatic denial, and spread her fingers across the length of Isabella’s neck. “Wait,” she whispered, and felt Isabella freeze; it saddened her, that instant, instinctive, rigid obedience, and she drew back.

She opened her eyes to Isabella’s gaze: fully alert and cautious, like blue-grey ice, frozen in a perpetuity of wariness.

Charlotte took a breath, straightened her shoulders and schooled herself. Desire was a sometime-ally, oft-time foe; on the most rare and improbable of occasions, it coincided with the task at hand, though frequently it was a thing to be nurtured hurriedly and in passing. All other times, desire ran too close to feelings she could not afford.

A time or two, desire was a thing untethered, unpaid, uncalled for, and when it happened like that, Charlotte was not selfless or practical enough to let it go.

“My dear,” she murmured. “I am not here for anybody’s ends but our own. If you would have me leave, just say so now.”

Isabella blinked at her slowly. She made no move towards her, but neither did she draw back further, or tell her to go away. Charlotte took her cues from that. She leaned in again, slowly, cautiously, placing her lips with purpose against Isabella’s throat. She felt the other woman’s shudder, but no indication of refusal, so she moved her lips up the soft column of it, chasing the thumping pulse. Isabella tasted of saffron and dog rose; exotic spice paired with the mildest of English scents. Charlotte opened her mouth and senses to Isabella’s scent and skin and subtle shivers.

It wasn’t often that she took a woman to her bed, and when she did, it was usually for practical reasons – a girl of her own age and trade, lusty and laughing, perhaps in need of some instruction. It was a strange thing to luxuriate in another woman’s signs of aging. Since childhood, Charlotte had been well versed in all the soaks and creams and vapours that might stand a chance of keeping a woman younger than her years. She’d heard all the diets recommended, all the well-meant pieces of advice about sleeping in your corset, with slabs of heifers’ cutlets on your face, in oil-soaked nightgowns, slices of lemons, crushed strawberry facemasks, beer and egg soaks in your hair. She wondered, briefly, whether Isabella knew them too, or whether she was simply blessed by nature.

She traced her lips against the fine tracery of wrinkles in the corners of Isabella’s eyes, and the slight puffiness beneath. She kissed along the contour of her neck, treasuring each line and slightly swelling groove along the way. She moved smoothly behind Isabella; tugged and undid, with years of practise, the fine brocade corset, and curled herself against Isabella’s back when she leaned forward to conceal whatever she thought of as a flaw.

She whispered Isabella’s name against her nape, and felt her freeze. 

“What is it?” Charlotte whispered, half-drunk on the closeness of her, that rich, intoxicating scent.

“I’m not…” This close, she could feel the motion of a woman straightening herself, bracing for impact. “Charlotte, I am tainted.”

She snorted coarsely, Covent Garden-bred, and forgot to refine her instinctual response. “Bollocks to that.”

She felt Isabella stiffen further and flopped back down on the divan, grinning despite her pounding heart. “Who isn’t tainted? You’re talking to a harlot. You’re lovely. You don’t really think… ”

Isabella detached with one abrupt, smooth motion and stood up, leaving Charlotte alone on the divan, her chest heaving and her face aflush. 

The sudden withdrawal made her feel exposed. “What?” she asked irritably.

Isabella was standing tall before her. The light of the fireplace was flattering, sending warm licks of flame up her expensive dress, her ivory skin, her high-piled hair; lending her heaving bosom an attractive flush. She was utterly desirable yet utterly untouchable. She was stunning. “What?” Charlotte asked again, a trifle harshly, and leaned back on her forearms, casually, to avoid showing just how gone she was. She felt her nipples pushing, hard and distended, against her shift and corset; felt the slick slide of her restless thighs, hidden beneath three layers of skirts. She pushed up on her elbows. “ _What?_ ”

She saw, shadow-layered, the movement of Isabella’s throat as she swallowed.

“You want me?” Her voice, smoke-hued by nature, was scratchy with emotion, barely audible.

Charlotte tilted her head and refused to feel shy about it. “Yes.”

A twitch moved across Isabella’s lips, too swift and bitter to be called a smile. “Oh, really.”

She reached up and removed her pile of rich-coiled hair, setting the wig aside without ever taking her eyes off Charlotte’s face. She moved immediately to the laces Charlotte had loosened, and pulled off her corset. She shoved her brocade skirts and panniers down, shimmied, and stood in a near-translucent shift. The fire behind her lit her, caressing the curves of hips and waist and thighs without added flattery.

Charlotte watched her; leaned back and breathed and took her in. It seemed a hard task just to breathe. She felt coiled and tense with heat, a slick urge building at her groin. “Let me see your hair,” she whispered.

Again, the wide mouth curled, whether with bitterness or something else it was too hard to tell; but Isabella’s hands came up, to work through the close-curled braids laid flat against her skull. They untangled reluctantly, into an unruly cloud not too far off the colour of her wig.

She stood, at last, straight-shouldered and straight-jawed before Charlotte’s gaze: a woman bare and unadorned, with a confused mass of dark curls rioting about her shoulders, her natural waist thicker than was fashionable, her breasts more sagging and her legs longer than permissible. Charlotte, herself not without the trappings of useful education, thought, _Diana, disarmed_ : a goddess of the wild woods, lost, bowless, and dangerous with her losses.

Aware of Isabella’s tension, she nonetheless took her time to look her fill; then reached for her own straps and laces. It took a time, but she had learned to do it in as quick a while as possible, and her one good corset – ash pink, reliable and sturdy, with accessible laces – made the task easier for her. She leaned back and reached up slowly, to unpin the tumble of her own hair. She watched Isabella’s eyes flicker helplessly after the motions of her hands and locks. She sat at ease, enjoying the loosened weight of her hair against her shoulders and collarbones, pins and bodkins tumbling clear. At last, she lay naked, comfortable by nature, a mere three feet from Isabella, who watched in controlled stiffness.

Tense or not, Isabella was watching her, and not just her face, either. Charlotte stretched consciously, running her fingertips down her flanks. She felt herself heating, nipples hardening and thighs slicking, under that over-cautious, smoke-blue gaze. “Come here,” she heard herself saying, roughly. Isabella’s thick lashes fluttered. She took a step back.

Charlotte did not take offence. She felt as if she could smell the other woman’s need; an iron-bound desire, coppery as blood. She raised her hands, ran them through her tumbling hair, revelled in Isabella’s gaze.

“Do you like this?” she asked, softly, and ran her hands down along her hips and ribs when she got no response but the flicker of Isabella’s eyes. “How about this?” She cupped her breasts with her hands, leisurely teased her nipples. Unnecessary; they were already hard. She squirmed, subtly but unmistakably, showing her reaction. She watched Isabella’s breasts in turn. “I want to touch your tits instead of mine,” she said, softly. “Would you like me to?”

Isabella made a noise; low, quickly smothered. Charlotte watched, with quite unprofessional satisfaction, the way Isabella’s nipples rose to her words. Wine-red and cherry-sized, they made her mouth water, made her ache to close her lips around them. She ran her tongue over her lips, deliberately. “I want to lick you,” she murmured. “Everywhere. Your tits. Your quim. I want to make you spend.”

“Why do you do this?”

Isabella’s question, almost desperate despite the passion underneath, was harsh enough to pull up her gaze, to make her meet Isabella’s eyes, vulnerable yet accusatory. She licked her lips again. She shrugged her shoulders. There was a time when honesty was a weakness; she sensed, instinctively, that this was one of those times when weakness was a good thing. She relaxed back against the divan, placing her fingers delicately between her thighs but not allowing herself the hard rub she craved.

“I want you,” she admitted, smiled at Isabella’s cocked eyebrow. “What? Surely that’s not a sentiment you’ve not come across before.”

Isabella snorted, a barely noticeable huff. “What do you want for it?”

Charlotte frowned. “Are you asking for my rate?” At Isabella’s rigid face, she forced herself to swallow her hint of offence. “There isn’t one. I do so want you. Is that so hard to comprehend?” Isabella stared at her, bare-headed, still suspicious. Charlotte grinned. “I am more naked than you, love. It makes me wet just to look at you. Can’t you see? Why do I want you? Because you are worth wanting. Come here.”

Isabella’s eyes moved. Charlotte gauged the mood of her – the barely forward thrill, the motion of her throat – and allowed herself some motion as well, curling her fingers between her nether lips. She registered triumph when Isabella’s eyes followed her there, but then grew lost to it; she threw back her neck, biting her lips. She moved her fingers, bent her knees. She was rising, hot, slick, needful. From half-lowered lids, she watched Isabella watching her.

“Come here,” she said again, throatily, allowing herself to look helpless. Isabella took a slow step, then two. Slowly, Charlotte spread her legs, letting her watch. She teased herself. She drew back when it seemed hardest. She whispered, “Isabella. Please.”

Isabella took a step, and then another. Charlotte leaned forward slowly, making her sprawled lust as much of an offering and as little of a threat as she could, keeping her eyes on Isabella’s. Isabella looked pale, her lips compressed, her throat convulsing. Charlotte longed to kiss her there. Instead, she leaned slowly forward, placing her open lips against Isabella’s hip bone, still covered by silk. 

“Come here,” she murmured again, even as she felt the heat of Isabella’s skin press against her mouth. Slowly, slowly, she placed her hands to cup Isabella’s waist. Slowly, slowly, she splayed her fingers across Isabella’s belly.

“Isabella. Let me….” Insensate with the haze of wanting, she tugged Isabella’s shift over her own head, and placed her mouth upon Isabella’s thigh, wet lips dragging up, and further up; she grabbed at Isabella’s hips when she felt the tell-tale response, and held her steady while she closed her eyes, and moved her mouth, and applied her tongue.

With a half-aborted cry, Isabella leaned forwards, into Charlotte’s hands, an instinctual sway that Charlotte absorbed by leaning back. She was highly aware of the tension in the thighs she held, but it was hard to focus on that mood when her own was so utterly consumed by need. Isabella tasted like brine-soaked silk, a mermaid arching, tensely, conflicted, into her mouth. Charlotte spread her fingers, nosing gently into soft curls. She gave her tongue up to abandon, licking and thrusting, pointedly, between those tensing thighs.

She heard Isabella give a sigh – almost as palpable as audible, a throb, a tilt, as much as any noise – and Charlotte arched forward, broadening her tongue, while splaying her hands across the other woman’s buttocks. Upwards and upwards again, from there: a heave of breath, a remnant of rigidity, but still no actual refusal, so Charlotte’s tongue slid up, and in. She tensed her mouth, and sucked.

“Oh… _Charlotte._ ” She heard her name, weighted with tension, as her hands, restlessly moving up, closed over Isabella’s breasts. She moaned at the feel of them, ripe and heavy in her questing hands, the nipples hard and swollen. Isabella leaned forward, pressing Charlotte back into the satin cushions of the divan. She went, but did not stop the motion of her tongue. Sea-salt and longing, thrusting back against her. She hummed, pleased and greedy, plying her tongue.

A sudden movement between her own thighs distracted her focus: slender fingers, placed shyly but deliberately, a sudden shock of intimacy. She cried out without planning to, and raised both mouth and hips; heard Isabella gasp in answer and shuddered, spreading her thighs. She pulled her mouth back long enough to gasp. “Higher. You can rub hard. That’s it. Oh please. _Oh yes_ ,” she moaned when Isabella’s hand complied.

The long, slender fingers moved with an urgency too practised to go unnoticed, and for a moment Charlotte couldn’t help picturing where that knowledge came from: a woman, longing but lonely, denying herself any pleasure but her own touch, for ten years, twenty. Everything in Charlotte revolted against those decades of denial.

She arched her back and cupped her hands around Isabella’s breasts, speeding up the motion of her tongue. “Yes,” she whispered frantically, between long, demanding licks, “Like that. Oh, love, that’s perfect. Please… yes… spend for me. Do it now.”

She felt Isabella responding to her words, a complicated tensing, unsure of itself. _Oh no, I’ll show you,_ she thought, harsh with wanting, wet and pulsing with the need to come. She firmed her tongue and thrust, once, twice, three times, a thick, luxurious suck around the sensitive nub between those warm, silky thighs, and then she felt the shudder she had looked for, a long, rippling release against her tongue, a rush of melted silk. She welcomed it with a smile and worked her tongue as long as Charlotte’s thrusting hips met hers; then lost her rhythm, abruptly, at the sensation of Isabella’s fingers scissoring her neatly, a thumb against her swollen bud and two fingers pushing deep inside her. She moaned and came with a harsh shudder, wrapping her legs around Isabella’s. She spent, endlessly, in a heated flare of prolonged, unconscious rut.

“Please,” she heard Isabella whisper through the roar of her own satisfaction, her voice rough; she didn’t know whether it was a plea to cease or persist, so experimentally she flicked her tongue again, slid her thumbs across Isabella’s hard nipples, and heard a sigh and curse in response: a push, a throb against her mouth, a fluttering second release that melted away against her lips’ insistent movement.

“Oh god… stop,” whispered the smoky burr into her ear, and Charlotte shuddered and complied, shimmying up Isabella’s body. Her own was sated but primed at the same time, tuned to exquisite attention. She moved her fingers between her legs, leisurely, while she and Isabella kissed. The wide mouth took hers, all tension melted from her body. Their breasts moved against each other, hot weight against hard nipples, and Charlotte arched and came again, thrusting up against the sleek velvet thigh bisecting hers, surrendering to her own fingers’ expert pressure.

Time passed. Moonlight blended into darkness and licking flames. She felt Isabella’s mouth on hers. She felt Isabella’s mouth on her breasts, between her legs. She put her fingers, lips, tongue, wherever they were allowed. They heaved, and thrusted; they rested, then made each other rise again. They fucked each other, sweetly, and then hard. She whispered filth, adoration, prayers. She shuddered, begged, demanded, and was met in kind. She was made tender, aching, sore. She relished it. 

 

She woke, from long years’ training, in the witching hour. Culls of any social strata fancied themselves progressive enough, whether from sentiment, a twisted sense of decency, or straight laziness, to let a girl fall asleep right after the act, but would still want her to be conveniently absconded by morning, like a nymph of the ancient times: like one of Zeus’s victims, turned to stone or tree or water once the act was done.

It was disorienting to find she was alone in the bed. She sat up quickly, by habit noticing the light source – the fire, burning down; the moon, not strong enough to be useful – and the position of her clothes: corset, skirt, jacket within reasonable reach, so never mind about the stockings or her cloak. It would be good to locate the shoes on her way out. They were calf leather, and expensively dyed.

“Hello.”

She blinked, thrusting tangled hair out of her face, and realised the moon wasn’t alone. Isabella was sitting in the window alcove, curled up in her crumpled silk shift. Her hair had calmed down from its tight-braided constriction, and lay softly curling on her shoulders. She looked a mere girl, recently debauched and sweet with it, her mouth a soft raspberry curve.

Charlotte felt herself relax in response to that face, entirely without volition. “I didn’t note you leaving.”

“I don’t sleep much.” Isabella’s mouth shifted, half-guilty but not defensive with it. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Charlotte found herself drawn by the soft curve of her mouth as if on puppet strings. “You didn’t.” She grabbed her own shift off the rug as she rolled out of bed, wrapping herself in silk from shoulder to thigh. She curled opposite Isabella on the window seat. Her warm toes encountered Isabella’s cold ones. “You thinking of your girl?”

Firelight made Isabella’s eyes the velvet-blue of a night ocean. Charlotte merely cocked her head to their darkened glare. “Is she the only thing he holds on you?”

She pretended not to notice the way Isabella’s shoulders had drawn up. “He doesn’t know she’s his.” She repeated it stiffly, as though it were a mantra that had kept her alive.

Charlotte nodded, as easy as she could. “But he knows you have a secret.”

A pause. A nod, cautious and reluctant.

Charlotte nodded back. “That, and the money.”

A pause, longer than the first. They watched each other. Charlotte kept track of traitorous motions – a twitching mouth, a flash of anguish – but she saw, too, the clenched jaw, the tightening brows. She knew all the signs of a woman driven into a corner; driven too far to do anything but fight.

She didn’t want Isabella to feel like she needed to fight Charlotte, or fight alone.

When Isabella nodded, she smiled again; let Isabella see the full extent of it, fury and contempt for her brother and oh, yes, caring, too, for her. Caring, her mother had taught her, could be an asset. She nudged her bare feet against Isabella’s, letting her share the heat. Their toes curled about each other’s.

“Darling, that’s nothing. We can win it back from him, and walk free. I don’t even need you to trust me. I just need you to trust yourself. Do you think you can fight for her? For yourself?”

The longest pause yet. Charlotte watched her, and dared herself to breathe. Dishevelled in the moonlight, Isabella was broken and mistrustful, cold and eminently capable of vengeance. She was the loneliest and loveliest woman Charlotte had ever seen, but she was not as alone as she thought herself.

“Yes.” It was barely audible, and barely credible. Charlotte leaned forward nonetheless, grinning, and caught up Isabella’s hands in hers. 

“Then you’ve as good as won.”

Isabella’ eyes searched hers, for a long time, then, slowly, she smiled back.

“Do you really think so?”

Charlotte’s heart soared. She grinned fiercely. “Oh, lovely girl. I _know_ so.”


End file.
